I think we all loved him. Even after he mismanaged the affairs of the
Amity Ditch Company, we commiserated him, although most of us were
stockholders, and lost heavily. I remember that the blacksmith went so
far as to say that “them chaps as put that responsibility on the old man
oughter be lynched.” But the blacksmith was not a stockholder; and the
expression was looked upon as the excusable extravagance of a large,
sympathizing nature, that, when combined with a powerful frame, was
unworthy of notice. At least, that was the way they put it. Yet I
think there was a general feeling of regret that this misfortune would
interfere with the old man's long-cherished plan of “going home.”
Indeed, for the last ten years he had been “going home.” He was going
home after a six-months' sojourn at Monte Flat; he was going home after
the first rains; he was going home when the rains were over; he was
going home when he had cut the timber on Buckeye Hill, when there was
pasture on Dow's Flat, when he struck pay-dirt on Eureka Hill, when the
Amity Company paid its first dividend, when the election was over, when
he had received an answer from his wife. And so the years rolled by, the
spring rains came and went, the woods of Buckeye Hill were level with
the ground, the pasture on Dow's Flat grew sear and dry, Eureka Hill
yielded its pay-dirt and swamped its owner, the first dividends of the
Amity Company were made from the assessments of stockholders, there were
new county officers at Monte Flat, his wife's answer had changed into a
persistent question, and still old man Plunkett remained.
It is only fair to say that he had made several distinct essays toward
going. Five years before, he had bidden good-by to Monte Hill with much
effusion and hand-shaking. But he never got any farther than the next
town. Here he was induced to trade the sorrel colt he was riding for a
bay mare,--a transaction that at once opened to his lively fancy a vista
of vast and successful future speculation. A few days after, Abner Dean
of Angel's received a letter from him, stating that he was going to
Visalia to buy horses. “I am satisfied,” wrote Plunkett, with that
elevated rhetoric for which his correspondence was remarkable,--“I
am satisfied that we are at last developing the real resources
of California. The world will yet look to Dow's Flat as the great
stock-raising centre. In view of the interests involved, I have deferred
my departure for a month.” It was two before he again returned to
us--penniless. Six months later, he was again enabled to start for the
Eastern States; and this time he got as far as San Francisco. I have
before me a letter which I received a few days after his arrival, from
which I venture to give an extract: “You know, my dear boy, that I have
always believed that gambling, as it is absurdly called, is still in its
infancy in California. I have always maintained that a perfect system
might be invented, by which the game of poker may be made to yield a
certain percentage to the intelligent player. I am not at liberty at
present to disclose the system; but before leaving this city I intend to
perfect it.” He seems to have done so, and returned to Monte Flat
with two dollars and thirty-seven cents, the absolute remainder of his
capital after such perfection.
It was not until 1868 that he appeared to have finally succeeded in
going home. He left us by the overland route,--a route which he declared
would give great opportunity for the discovery of undeveloped resources.
His last letter was dated Virginia City. He was absent three years. At
the close of a very hot day in midsummer, he alighted from the Wingdam
stage, with hair and beard powdered with dust and age. There was a
certain shyness about his greeting, quite different from his usual
frank volubility, that did not, however, impress us as any accession
of character. For some days he was reserved regarding his recent visit,
contenting himself with asserting, with more or less aggressiveness,
that he had “always said he was going home, and now he had been there.”
Later he grew more communicative, and spoke freely and critically of
the manners and customs of New York and Boston, commented on the social
changes in the years of his absence, and, I remember, was very hard upon
what he deemed the follies incidental to a high state of civilization.
Still later he darkly alluded to the moral laxity of the higher planes
of Eastern society; but it was not long before he completely tore away
the veil, and revealed the naked wickedness of New York social life in a
way I even now shudder to recall. Vinous intoxication, it appeared, was
a common habit of the first ladies of the city. Immoralities which he
scarcely dared name were daily practised by the refined of both sexes.
Niggardliness and greed were the common vices of the rich. “I have
always asserted,” he continued, “that corruption must exist where luxury
and riches are rampant, and capital is not used to develop the natural
resources of the country. Thank you--I will take mine without sugar.”
It is possible that some of these painful details crept into the local
journals. I remember an editorial in “The Monte Flat Monitor,” entitled
“The Effete East,” in which the fatal decadence of New York and New
England was elaborately stated, and California offered as a means of
natural salvation. “Perhaps,” said “The Monitor,” “we might add that
Calaveras County offers superior inducements to the Eastern visitor with
capital.”
Later he spoke of his family. The daughter he had left a child had grown
into beautiful womanhood. The son was already taller and larger than his
father; and, in a playful trial of strength, “the young rascal,”
added Plunkett, with a voice broken with paternal pride and humorous
objurgation, had twice thrown his doting parent to the ground. But it
was of his daughter he chiefly spoke. Perhaps emboldened by the
evident interest which masculine Monte Flat held in feminine beauty, he
expatiated at some length on her various charms and accomplishments, and
finally produced her photograph,--that of a very pretty girl,--to their
infinite peril. But his account of his first meeting with her was so
peculiar, that I must fain give it after his own methods, which were,
perhaps, some shades less precise and elegant than his written style.
“You see, boys, it's always been my opinion that a man oughter be able
to tell his own flesh and blood by instinct. It's ten years since I'd
seen my Melindy; and she was then only seven, and about so high. So,
when I went to New York, what did I do? Did I go straight to my house,
and ask for my wife and daughter, like other folks? No, sir! I rigged
myself up as a peddler, as a peddler, sir; and I rung the bell. When the
servant came to the door, I wanted--don't you see?--to show the ladies
some trinkets. Then there was a voice over the banister says, 'Don't
want any thing: send him away.'--'Some nice laces, ma'am, smuggled,'
I says, looking up. 'Get out, you wretch!' says she. I knew the voice,
boys: it was my wife, sure as a gun. Thar wasn't any instinct thar.
'Maybe the young ladies want somethin',' I said. 'Did you hear me?' says
she; and with that she jumps forward, and I left. It's ten years, boys,
since I've seen the old woman; but somehow, when she fetched that leap,
I naterally left.”
He had been standing beside the bar--his usual attitude--when he made
this speech; but at this point he half faced his auditors with a look
that was very effective. Indeed, a few who had exhibited some signs
of scepticism and lack of interest, at once assumed an appearance of
intense gratification and curiosity as he went on,--
“Well, by hangin round there for a day or two, I found out at last it
was to be Melindy's birthday next week, and that she was goin' to have
a big party. I tell ye what, boys, it weren't no slouch of a reception.
The whole house was bloomin' with flowers, and blazin' with lights; and
there was no end of servants and plate and refreshments and fixin's”--
“Uncle Joe.”
“Well?”
“Where did they get the money?”
Plunkett faced his interlocutor with a severe glance. “I always said,”
he replied slowly, “that, when I went home, I'd send on ahead of me a
draft for ten thousand dollars. I always said that, didn't I? Eh? And I
said I was goin' home--and I've been home, haven't I? Well?”
Either there was something irresistibly conclusive in this logic, or
else the desire to hear the remainder of Plunkett's story was stronger;
but there was no more interruption. His ready good-humor quickly
returned, and, with a slight chuckle, he went on,--
“I went to the biggest jewelry shop in town, and I bought a pair of
diamond ear-rings, and put them in my pocket, and went to the house.
'What name?' says the chap who opened the door; and he looked like a
cross 'twixt a restaurant waiter and a parson. 'Skeesicks,' said I. He
takes me in; and pretty soon my wife comes sailin' into the parlor,
and says, 'Excuse me; but I don't think I recognize the name.' She was
mighty polite; for I had on a red wig and side-whiskers. 'A friend of
your husband's from California, ma'am, with a present for your daughter,
Miss--,' and I made as I had forgot the name. But all of a sudden a
voice said, 'That's too thin;' and in walked Melindy. 'It's playin' it
rather low down, father, to pretend you don't know your daughter's name;
ain't it, now? How are you, old man?' And with that she tears off my wig
and whiskers, and throws her arms around my neck--instinct, sir, pure
instinct!”
Emboldened by the laughter which followed his description of the filial
utterances of Melinda, he again repeated her speech, with more or less
elaboration, joining in with, and indeed often leading, the hilarity
that accompanied it, and returning to it, with more or less incoherency,
several times during the evening.
And so, at various times and at various places, but chiefly in
bar-rooms, did this Ulysses of Monte Flat recount the story of his
wanderings. There were several discrepancies in his statement; there was
sometimes considerable prolixity of detail; there was occasional change
of character and scenery; there was once or twice an absolute change in
the denoument: but always the fact of his having visited his wife and
children remained. Of course, in a sceptical community like that of
Monte Flat,--a community accustomed to great expectation and small
realization,--a community wherein, to use the local dialect, “they
got the color, and struck hardpan,” more frequently than any other
mining-camp,--in such a community, the fullest credence was not given
to old man Plunkett's facts. There was only one exception to the
general unbelief,--Henry York of Sandy Bar. It was he who was always
an attentive listener; it was his scant purse that had often furnished
Plunkett with means to pursue his unprofitable speculations; it was to
him that the charms of Melinda were more frequently rehearsed; it was he
that had borrowed her photograph; and it was he that, sitting alone in
his little cabin one night, kissed that photograph, until his honest,
handsome face glowed again in the firelight.
It was dusty in Monte Flat. The ruins of the long dry season were
crumbling everywhere: everywhere the dying summer had strewn its red
ashes a foot deep, or exhaled its last breath in a red cloud above the
troubled highways. The alders and cottonwoods, that marked the line of
the water-courses, were grimy with dust, and looked as if they might
have taken root in the open air. The gleaming stones of the parched
water-courses themselves were as dry bones in the valley of death. The
dusty sunset at times painted the flanks of the distant hills a dull,
coppery hue: on other days, there was an odd, indefinable earthquake
halo on the volcanic cones of the farther coast-spurs. Again an acrid,
resinous smoke from the burning wood on Heavytree Hill smarted the eyes,
and choked the free breath of Monte Flat; or a fierce wind, driving
every thing, including the shrivelled summer, like a curled leaf before
it, swept down the flanks of the Sierras, and chased the inhabitants to
the doors of their cabins, and shook its red fist in at their windows.
And on such a night as this, the dust having in some way choked the
wheels of material progress in Monte Flat, most of the inhabitants were
gathered listlessly in the gilded bar-room of the Moquelumne Hotel,
spitting silently at the red-hot stove that tempered the mountain winds
to the shorn lambs of Monte Flat, and waiting for the rain.
Every method known to the Flat of beguiling the time until the advent of
this long-looked-for phenomenon had been tried. It is true, the methods
were not many, being limited chiefly to that form of popular facetiae
known as practical joking; and even this had assumed the seriousness
of a business-pursuit. Tommy Roy, who had spent two hours in digging
a ditch in front of his own door, into which a few friends casually
dropped during the evening, looked ennuye and dissatisfied. The four
prominent citizens, who, disguised as foot-pads, had stopped the county
treasurer on the Wingdam road, were jaded from their playful efforts
next morning. The principal physician and lawyer of Monte Flat, who had
entered into an unhallowed conspiracy to compel the sheriff of Calaveras
and his posse to serve a writ of ejectment on a grizzly bear, feebly
disguised under the name of one “Major Ursus,” who haunted the groves
of Heavytree Hill, wore an expression of resigned weariness. Even the
editor of “The Monte Flat Monitor,” who had that morning written a
glowing account of a battle with the Wipneck Indians, for the benefit
of Eastern readers,--even HE looked grave and worn. When, at last, Abner
Dean of Angel's, who had been on a visit to San Francisco, walked into
the room, he was, of course, victimized in the usual way by one or two
apparently honest questions, which ended in his answering them, and then
falling into the trap of asking another, to his utter and complete shame
and mortification; but that was all. Nobody laughed; and Abner,
although a victim, did not lose his good-humor. He turned quietly on his
tormentors, and said,--
“I've got something better than that--you know old man Plunkett?”
Everybody simultaneously spat at the stove, and nodded his head.
“You know he went home three years ago?” Two or three changed the
position of their legs from the backs of different chairs; and one man
said, “Yes.”
“Had a good time, home?”
Everybody looked cautiously at the man who had said, “Yes;” and he,
accepting the responsibility with a faint-hearted smile, said, “Yes,”
again, and breathed hard. “Saw his wife and child--purty gal?” said
Abner cautiously. “Yes,” answered the man doggedly. “Saw her photograph,
perhaps?” continued Abner Dean quietly.
The man looked hopelessly around for support. Two or three, who had been
sitting near him, and evidently encouraging him with a look of interest,
now shamelessly abandoned him and looked another way. Henry York flushed
a little, and veiled his gray eyes. The man hesitated, and then with a
sickly smile, that was intended to convey the fact that he was perfectly
aware of the object of this questioning, and was only humoring it from
abstract good feeling, returned, “Yes,” again.
“Sent home--let's see--ten thousand dollars, wasn't it?” Abner Dean went
on. “Yes,” reiterated the man with the same smile.
“Well, I thought so,” said Abner quietly. “But the fact is, you see,
that he never went home at all--nary time.”
Everybody stared at Abner in genuine surprise and interest, as, with
provoking calmness and a half-lazy manner, he went on,--
“You see, thar was a man down in 'Frisco as knowed him, and saw him in
Sonora during the whole of that three years. He was herding sheep, or
tending cattle, or spekilating all that time, and hadn't a red cent.
Well it 'mounts to this,--that 'ar Plunkett ain't been east of the Rocky
Mountains since '49.”
The laugh which Abner Dean had the right to confidently expect came;
but it was bitter and sardonic. I think indignation was apparent in the
minds of his hearers. It was felt, for the first time, that there was
a limit to practical joking. A deception carried on for a year,
compromising the sagacity of Monte Flat, was deserving the severest
reprobation. Of course, nobody had believed Plunkett; but then the
supposition that it might be believed in adjacent camps that they
HAD believed him was gall and bitterness. The lawyer thought that an
indictment for obtaining money under false pretences might be found. The
physician had long suspected him of insanity, and was not certain but
that he ought to be confined. The four prominent merchants thought that
the business-interests of Monte Flat demanded that something should be
done. In the midst of an excited and angry discussion, the door slowly
opened, and old man Plunkett staggered into the room.
He had changed pitifully in the last six months. His hair was a dusty,
yellowish gray, like the chemisal on the flanks of Heavytree Hill; his
face was waxen white, and blue and puffy under the eyes; his clothes
were soiled and shabby, streaked in front with the stains of
hurriedly eaten luncheons, and fluffy behind with the wool and hair of
hurriedly-extemporized couches. In obedience to that odd law, that, the
more seedy and soiled a man's garments become, the less does he seem
inclined to part with them, even during that portion of the twenty-four
hours when they are deemed less essential, Plunkett's clothes had
gradually taken on the appearance of a kind of a bark, or an outgrowth
from within, for which their possessor was not entirely responsible.
Howbeit, as he entered the room, he attempted to button his coat over
a dirty shirt, and passed his fingers, after the manner of some animal,
over his cracker-strewn beard, in recognition of a cleanly public
sentiment. But, even as he did so, the weak smile faded from his
lips; and his hand, after fumbling aimlessly around a button, dropped
helplessly at his side. For as he leaned his back against the bar, and
faced the group, he, for the first time, became aware that every eye but
one was fixed upon him. His quick, nervous apprehension at once leaped
to the truth. His miserable secret was out, and abroad in the very air
about him. As a last resort, he glanced despairingly at Henry York; but
his flushed face was turned toward the windows.
No word was spoken. As the bar-keeper silently swung a decanter and
glass before him, he took a cracker from a dish, and mumbled it with
affected unconcern. He lingered over his liquor until its potency
stiffened his relaxed sinews, and dulled the nervous edge of his
apprehension, and then he suddenly faced around. “It don't look as if we
were goin' to hev any rain much afore Christmas,” he said with defiant
ease.
No one made any reply.
“Just like this in '52, and again in '60. It's always been my opinion
that these dry seasons come reg'lar. I've said it afore. I say it again.
It's jist as I said about going home, you know,” he added with desperate
recklessness.
“Thar's a man,” said Abner Dean lazily, “ez sez you never went home.
Thar's a man ez sez you've been three years in Sonora. Thar's a man ez
sez you hain't seen your wife and daughter since '49. Thar's a man ez
sez you've been playin' this camp for six months.”